


Last Words

by ladyofdragons



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Forgiveness, Hope, Last words, M/M, MTMTE, Purple Prose, thank yous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-23
Updated: 2016-05-27
Packaged: 2018-06-10 08:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6946762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladyofdragons/pseuds/ladyofdragons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set after MTMTE #52. Before confronting the DJD et all, Drift has his own last words to pass on to those he's close to, or once was...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Drift and Megatron

**Author's Note:**

> A little Drift/Megatron drabble written in the wee hours of the morning right after MTMTE #52. Rather purple-prosey, because their meeting can’t come soon enough for me and I’ve been getting all feelsy. Originally posted on [Tumblr](http://ladyofdragons.tumblr.com/post/143635298241/driftmegatron-last-words). There will probably be ones for Ratchet and Rodimus too.
> 
> I need to get back into finishing chap 7 of Captain’s Orders, so this is a nice warm up.

Every step was solemn, leading them towards this morbid destiny, one that seemed more certain than any here cared to dwell on. But many of those footplates had trodden dire battlegrounds before, and two such now stepped in time, until a white hand pressed to a gun metal gray arm, halting them while the others pressed on. 

"You're not having reservations now, are you?" Megatron asked in low tones as Drift turned to face him, the quality of the swordmech's aura pregnant with pause, and something else unspoken. He shook his white and red helm, face firmly set on this course, not offering words save the ones currently queuing in his vocalizer. The swordmech reached up, the cup of his hand drawing Megatron's helm down so that he could issue them into the big mech's audio, words for Megatron alone, soft yet powerful.

" _I forgive you_."

He knew it a small thing, too small in the end when all the accounting was done, but Drift had come to realize that atonement wasn't about numbers, impossible or otherwise, but being on the right path and spreading the good you did to others. Sometimes that good was small, like a seed, but as he learned on Earth, the seed of a tiny tree, over years, could grow towering and strong, breaking solid stone while also blooming with the most delicate of petals. 

Megatron did not offer an immediate response, and it seemed as if he might reject to notion, the smallness of it being swallowed by all his wrongdoing. But then the stiff set of Megatron's posture shifted, and the massive frame, only partially repaired, sank down, helm still bowed, taking a knee before the swordmech who stood tall before him. The setting sun spat colored fire through the stained glass of the fortress's foyer windows, painting Drift's frame a spectrum of color while the big mech knelt in his shadow.

"I don't deserve as much," the ex-warlord said roughly, the words muffled by his bowed helm, and Drift's arms came up, white hands cupping the great helm as the crest of it came to rest against the Autobrand emblazoned on his chestplate.

"Good then, that it isn't a requirement," because Drift knew how it felt, to not feel deserving of forgiveness, or personal peace, or happiness, yet to wish for it none the less. And though Megatron had always been a stronger individual than he--unquestionably so--that didn't preclude the offering of it, a small seed that could maybe still bloom, even if for a very short time.

They remained as such for a long moment, Drift's arms encircling the great helm pressed to his chest while Megatron's large hands cupped his elbows, the closest to a gentle embrace they had ever dared in their long, turmulous history. Drift set his lipplates to the crown of that helm, pressing home a time-worn affection that was newly restored into something greater, fueled by a bright, resilient hope.

Finally the great helm lifted, sanguine red optics finding cerulean ones, the color undertones still showing firm conviction while Drift's hands trailed down the side of Megatron's helm, as through trying to strip away some of the heavy weight that hung over the ex-warlord's head. Drift's thumbs traced a soft pattern down Megatron's face, smoothing the lines under the optics and around the mouth, in a shape not unlike the red markings lining his own face. There was a prayer in his vocalizer, but it took the shape of a gentle smile on his lips instead, the words kept within.

Megatron's engine rumbled, echoing deeply in the vast, sunlit space. "You should be placing your assurances and adulations in those more in need of it." 

Ratchet, or perhaps Rodimus; Drift would guess. But he had already spoken with them--the easier task (proportionally so)--and this was what remained, the most important thing left unsaid. And though it had been said now, there was still a gravity between them, drawing out this moment. With the sun warm on his back, Drift let it propel him forward, the thumb that was pushing a soft caress over Megatron's lower lipplate shifting to cup the chin, tipping it up so the swordmech could gently press their mouths together in a kiss that meant more than just forgiveness. It sealed in any further objection, offering acceptance, solidarity, and affection; something soft in this brittle world of theirs, bright in the looming darkness.

It stirred a distant memory in Drift, of a similar kiss he'd received on the dawn of a decisive battle, silken lipplates that had pressed faith, affection and undisclosed desire to his, breaking open the permenant set of his scowl forever.

"It's right where it needs to be."


	2. Drift and Ratchet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Drift reserves some time with a certain hard working medic in the remainder of the day, possibly their last day, before the DJD attack. He offers comfort but in reality it's he who needs it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wrote both this and the Rodimus one following MTMTE 52 as well; figured I should post them before tearing down my computer for the big move. Originally posted to [Tumblr](http://ladyofdragons.tumblr.com/post/144841129856/last-words-driftratchet). They're here in reverse chronological order (timeline wise Rodimus occurs first, then Ratchet, then Megatron), but that's how I wrote them so...

The air was cool in the room, slightly stale as many rooms in the fortress were, seldom used by its sole former occupant. Sounds from outside filtered past the closed door, the others going about their last minute business, as Drift sat quietly in wait for the busiest among them. The din of activity created an almost morid sense of normalcy as the afternoon hours slid quietly towords sundown, the reality of their fates grimly illustrated by the broken form Ratchet and Rodimus had carried with surprising care toward what passed for a medibay here.

It hadn't been how he'd expected it, none of the ways he'd imagined it: Drift's first view of the 'new' Megatron. Solemnly resolute? Defiant but righteous? Suspiciously accommodating? No. Instead, the place where Drift had been told he'd find an Autobrand was blackened and melted by a fusion canon, the mangled internals below scarcely recognizable. 

He'd lingered through the repairs, aiding where he could but still feeling helpless in spite of it all, those hands of his still more accustomed to violence than care-taking. So with a knowing nod from Ratchet, Drift had finally taken his leave, retreating in search of a small slice of quiet, finding a room with what could pass for a berth because he knew the stubborn medic should rest soon.

In truth though, there were other reasons that pulled Drift from that room. He wasn't ready yet, to face Megatron, to process their new present when their past was still so full of scars. So instead he sought to reorient himself, to do his own form of preparation for the end. Before culling his thoughts of dark things and settling into meditation, Drift sent Ratchet a data message. A simple communique, just the room location and a short request for his presence, because Drift knew Ratchet would only take a break when his systems forced recharge. Sometimes Ratchet took such stern care of everyone else that he needed someone to do the same for him. And so Drift made sure a space was reserved for him when he was through being strong, being amazing, and being everything that had made him the Autobot CMO for millions of years.

For when he needed a moment to let the weariness take him, to crumple and hold his helm in his hands in privacy.

So Drift sat waiting for Ratchet, his attempts at meditation thwarted by the nervous energy in the air, too much vibrancy to let him settle into a peaceful space. So when Ratchet finally entered Drift was glad for it, shrugging off the mantle of attempted self maintenance. The weary slump of the medic's spaulders was of no surprise, at first too weary to notice Drift in the dim light.

"You took your time," Drift murmured. Try as he might, the lightness of the quip wasn't quite there, reality squeezing the humor from it.

Ratchet looked up, optics dim, but their shape softened after finding the swordmech. "Can't leave any of these jokers alone for even a fortnight." His vocalizer was rough, undercharged and laced with static. Drift was already rising, guiding Ratchet over to the berth--or what would pass for one in this case--sinking down into a seated position. Ratchet resisted with gruff words, his old body allowed himself to be guided, gratefully taking the opportunity for a moment's rest. "What's this about?"

"They couldn't have a better medic." Drift offered, ignoring the other question. "But I might be biased..." Drift pulled a ration packet from his storage and pressed it into Ratchet's hand with a half-grin, the same grin he used when he knew he was about to get chided for something.

Ratchet looked at him for a long moment, seemingly searching, but then simply returned the grin with a twist of his his own mouth before tearing into the packet and making quick work of half the contents. "Don't think this is gonna get you special treatment, kid," Ratchet said, even as he handed the rest of the ration back to Drift, sharing with insistence. 

Drift knew better than to argue, and knew better than to resist when he found Ratchet's arm curling around his shoulders, tugging him down as the medic lay back, sharing more than just the ration so they could both snatch a moment of rest from the day's strife. Drift settled beside Ratchet, almost too politely, turning his broad spaulders out to prevent them from catching on Ratchet's own kibble.

The room grew quiet again, or some semblance of it; the goings-on beyond the room's walls continuing. But those sounds slowly fell away into the background, a protective cocoon of silence wrapping around them, their mingled ex-vents warming the air between them. The peaceful state which had eluded Drift earlier could now be felt sinking into his systems, systems that were warm with growing affection as he pressed his face to Ratchet's side.

"Thank you," Drift murmured into the quiet, soft words that still seemed too loud, too full of gratitude to be contained within gentle volumes.

"For what?" Ratchet said, engine idled down but not in recharge yet.

"For everything. For Rodion. For Vector Sigma. For Delphi. For Stone World. For coming after me. ... For this."

Thoughtful quiet followed, a moment to let the words settle on the medic's brow, a realization for the timing and chosen words. "I'd do it all again, kid," said Ratchet, his arm drawing tighter around Drift, and Drift rolled closer, tucking in against Ratchet's side, hiding the stretch of a smile against the new white plating. The room felt warm and comfortable then, a tiny sanctuary in the midst of strife, the bright light of hope rekindling in the dark.

He could wish it to stay like this, forever, this quiet kind of peace and appreciation for one another, but Drift felt the growing shadow of the impending future too keenly, and weight of his past looming to suffocate him. It stirred a sudden anger in him, that despite all their efforts, his efforts, such beauty in life could be destroyed so easily. He squashed it though, smoothing his EM field once again, not wishing to ruin the moment himself with his own grim thoughts.

The hum of Ratchet's ventilation system was even, steady as if he was in recharge, but his field flexed, understanding, comforting and concerned. "Talk to him Drift. Before you regret not doing it," Ratchet finally said. There was no need to inquire whom was being spoken of, and Drift felt old tomes of history opened up again, ones that had been pulled from the archives when he stoicly watched Megatron being carried towards medibay.

"Is he awake?" Drift asked after a long moment, feeling far less stoic.

"Soon I imagine. But not yet."

A small reprieve, time in which Drift didn't have to decide, to choose between this--the hear and now--and thumbing through the restless pages of that old history before penning the conclusion, perhaps finding some closure in it for both former Decepticons. Drift knew it needed to be him, knew the ex-warlord would easily rival his own capacity to be stubborn and stoic. And Drift knew, as he'd learned in Crystal City, that it sometimes took a gentle hand offered to bridge a hard, long-suffering gap.

But the reprieve had been granted so Drift chose to take advantage for just a little longer, memorizing the specific sounds of Ratchet's being, the little tick of the fan every tenth revolution, the subtle ebb and flow of the EM field as Ratchet's spark pulsed below the glass windshield. Drift could imagine its swirls of color and energy, letting the warmth in his own spark fuel his hope and faith.

"Good. Because right now..." Drift said, pressing his face to the medic's windshield with a soft whine of his engine, fielding the realization that is was _he_ who needed the moment, not Ratchet, to let go of the stoic exterior and sag under the weight of things. To be afraid, but also to cherish fully the things dear to him. "...I kind of like being right here."


	3. Drift and Rodimus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How did the conversation in MTMTE 52 between Drift and Rodimus actually end?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last of the post MTMTE 52 drabbles posted to [Tumblr](http://ladyofdragons.tumblr.com/post/144926808706/last-words-driftrodimus).

"We're gonna make it out of this. You. Me. Everybody. We're gonna make it. I promise."

Despite his best efforts, the small smile that had found its way onto Drift's face slowly faded. "Thank you. But that's not what your _eyes_ are saying."

Rodimus didn't have words for that, not immediately, and Drift suddenly missed the cavalier bluster of old, that dangerous mix of tenacity and daring that got Rodimus into as much trouble as it got him out of. That bluster would have rung even more hollow here in the empty room though, the fortress soon to be a tomb, with Rodimus clearly not believing his own propaganda. 

Drift chuffed a laugh then, a cold, dark thing that was still looking for light, finding humor however deeply ironic. "It's crazy you know. To think... I spent all that time out there. Being careful, covering my tracks, listening for news or sightings. And in the end... _I_ came to the DJD, not the other way around."

" _That_ wasn't my fault for once!" Rodimus said, and a little bit of the cavalier attitude returned, rebounding off Drift's attempt at lightening the mood. "You did that part all on your own."

_Well, not_ all _on my own_ , Drift thought, reminded of Ratchet, a mech who didn't let his ego get in the way of chasing down a wayward friend. But Drift didn't say it. Instead, he clung to the warm thread of positivity they'd rekindled, something to stitch together the wounded gap between them. For so much of Drift's life, bitterness and anger had turned him ugly. This was the last place, the wrong time, to let it take hold again.

"What can I say? I must be overdue for getting myself into epic amounts of trouble," Drift speculated, mouth twitching with a grin that was gaining power again, pushing past the awkwardness, the gulf of years apart and the things that kept it so.

"Is _that_ why you hang out with me!? For my weekly diet of stupid adventures?"

Drift shrugged, feigning nonchalance. "Keeps me thin." 

The joke hung in the air a moment, the reference stretching to a world and past almost too distant for Rodimus when the future was looming so ominously. But then it broke over them both, laughter bubbling up in the silence to fill the room with a healthy, vibrant sound. It was a good feeling, the start of something maybe, and despite Drift's wariness he couldn't keep himself entirely distant. The swordmech was about to offer another poorly constructed attempt at humor when Rodimus interrupted him. 

"You can leave, if you want," Rodimus said abruptly, as if pushing past an obstacle, forcing it out before he he second thoughts. "You know that right?"

Drift looked at him a moment, reading and knowing the truth, that Rodimus desperately wanted him to stay but was giving Drift the option to go. Permission to go. As if the choice now would make up for when Drift felt he had none following the Overlord debacle.

"Yeah. I heard." He shrugged, the smile turning rueful but stubborn. "You know that's not my way though. Everyone is making a stand. Even Megatron." Another chuff of laughter, "And Primus knows I can't leave Ratchet here, that stubborn cybe would never leave either."

Rodimus nodded his acceptance, the moment seeming too fragile to support any kind of bravado, holding words in reserve as if Drift might change his mind at any moment. It was almost painful to watch, as painful as Rodimus' earlier confession, to see the fear under the wavering mantle of leadership, the facade of can-do attitude. It called to Drift, a white hand alighting on one of the orange spaulders with comfort and reassurance in its touch.

"In truth though," Drift began, voice moving from resigned to resolute as his hand gave that spaulder a squeeze, "I think the universe led me here because it's where I am needed most."

Some part of that fear which was tangible and real crumbled then and fell away, Rodimus' optics brightening with a reflection of Drift's resolve, his own hand clasping Drift's arm in return with a squeeze. It was a step towards rebuilding and Drift seized it, the moment, tugging Rodimus into a hug, one that set aside the painful realizations and confessions and wanted to remember all the best things they could be together.

"There's still enough light left for miracles today." Drift murmured into the curve of the orange spaulder, mouth twisting into another half-grin, "Besides. _Some_ one has to be around to save your aft."

Rodimus choked a laugh. "Wow, shut up you!"


End file.
